


Be Brave, Hunk

by greenteafiend



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Character Development, Engineer Hunk (Voltron), Gen, Gladiator Hunk, Gladiator Shiro (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron)-centric, Hunk Appreciation Big Bang 2018, Kerberos Mission, Panic Attacks, Possible Character Death, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenteafiend/pseuds/greenteafiend
Summary: Unlike practically every other cadet at the Galaxy Garrison, Hunk didn’t want to leave Earth.Heck, he hadn’t even wanted to leaveSamoato attend the Galaxy Garrison in the first place, let alone leave the whole planet entirely.Soof course, when Matt Holt breaks his arm shortly before the Kerberos mission, it washimof all people who was selected to replace him.He only had himself to blame. If he'd beenlisteningto the instructors before he solved the supposedly "unsolvable" engineering issue, he'd never have done it, and they never would have looked at him.





	Be Brave, Hunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AniDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniDragon/gifts).



> This is my piece for the 2018 Hunk Big Bang with art by [Anidragon](http://anidragon.tumblr.com/). Thank you [Jules](http://zheenterprize.tumblr.com/) for betaing, and [Damnspider](http://damnspider.tumblr.com/) for fixing all my typos. :)

Unlike practically every other cadet at the Galaxy Garrison, Hunk didn’t want to leave Earth.

Heck, he hadn’t even wanted to leave _Samoa_ to attend the Galaxy Garrison in the first place, let alone leave the whole planet entirely.

Earth was where the atmosphere was breathable for humans, the ozone layer protected everyone from ultraviolet light, and the magnetic field prevented radiation from space mutating the very life of out of DNA.

Earth was the only place he knew with oceans you could swim in, delicious food you could eat, and people he that he loved.

So _of course_ it was _him_ of all people who was selected to replace Matthew Holt on the Kerberos mission.  

The poor guy broke his arm falling off the roof of his parents’ house; something about stargazing with his kid sister one last time before he left to see the stars up close and personal, only he wouldn’t get to do that anymore.  

 _Hunk_ would.

They couldn’t have selected a more reluctant candidate if they’d tried.

It was strange, because all his life Hunk never yearned for anything bigger. Sure, he yearned for _knowledge_ , but he was content on his island with his family. It was almost as if big things kept coming for him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t dodge them.  

 

 

 

 

It all started one day when Hunk woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck; his head was foggy, his body ached, he had no appetite, and he was weak and shaky.

He got up anyway and went to class because he knew there was a sim flight that day, and he didn’t want to let his team down. Lance in particular would be gutted if he didn’t get to participate in the jump.

Because he felt so ill, there was no room left in his brain for his usual anxiety, and even though he floated through the whole ordeal in a bit of a daze, they completed the mission without him passing out or even throwing up on anything. Because he hadn’t eaten, there was nothing inside him to bring back up.

He even fixed the engine when it ‘broke down’ halfway through the mission, and afterwards when it was over, he barely noticed the way the instructors were staring at him.  

No one had told him the mission was supposed to be impossible to complete.

Hunk had no idea how much the mental note the instructor made of his aptitude that day would affect the entire course of his life.  

When the Garrison started reviewing candidates to take Matt Holt’s place on the Kerberos mission, Hunk’s name ended up on the list.

 

 

 

  

    A week later, in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics for the purpose of engine propulsion, an officer interrupted to speak to the lecturer. They conferred for a moment, and then the lecturer pointed straight at him.

    “Iosefa Lealofi?” said the officer, “Please come with me.”

    “Your _full_ name? What’d you do?” hissed Lance. Hunk shrugged nervously, and did as he was told. His first thought was that he was getting kicked out; his motion sickness and anxiety were awful even though his grades were excellent. He was ashamed that the idea of being sent home was appealing to him; no one from his entire family had ever gone to university, let alone such a prestigious school. The selfish thought make him feel ungrateful, so he tried to cast it out of his mind as he was led down several glass and chrome corridors.     

He was taken to a room with a handful of other cadets, and told he was taking a test to measure his suitability for a new position that had just come available. They called it a _promotion._

The first section of the test made sense, it was a series of engineering problem solving questions.The second section however was far more eclectic.

_‘Are you a tidy person?’_

_‘How do you deal with conflict?’_

_‘How do you deal with stress?’_

Hunk just answered as honestly as he was able to.

_‘Yes.’_

_‘By trying to see things from other people’s perspectives so I can understand where they’re coming from.’_

_‘Gourmet cooking, breathing exercises, and fixing things.’_

When Lance asked him what it was all about, Hunk couldn’t even tell him because he didn’t know himself.

 

 

 

 

    The next day they called him up for a physical examination. A series of nurses and doctors took his height, his weight, and his blood pressure. They asked him questions about his medical history, (“Do you have any allergies?” “Nope.” “Hypertension?” “Uh-uh.”), and then they had him carry out a variety of physically exerting tasks. The observer let out a low whistle when they tested how much weight he could deadlift.

    “Shit, son, we’re gonna run out of weights,” he said, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. Hunk could only shrug sheepishly; there was a reason ‘Hunk’ was his nickname. 

Despite his… _larger_ figure, Hunk was reasonably fit, (probably because Lance _made_ him accompany him on his jogs three times a week, _and_ to the pool to swim laps), so the the mile they made him run was relatively painless, and achieved within an acceptable amount of time.

After that they dismissed him, and Hunk tried and failed not to feel self-conscious about the fact that they were all scribbling furiously on their clipboards as he walked away.

 

 

 

 

    A week after that, he was called to have a meeting with Iverson.   

He immediately knew that something was up because the meeting wasn’t in Iverson’s office, (like disciplinary meetings usually were, Hunk would know; Lance’d had _heaps_ ) it was in a larger conference room, and the _Board of Directors_ of the Galaxy Garrison was there, along with Takashi Shirogane (Hunk recognized him from the recruitment poster on Lance’s side of their room), Sam Holt, and Matthew Holt. Matthew Holt’s arm was in a cast, and it was _that_ tiny detail that send the first flicker of unease pinging through Hunk’s body...

They sat him down in the middle of the room, and then Iverson told him in his gravelly voice that they had selected him to take Matthew Holt’s place on the Kerberos mission.

Hunk almost blacked out; it was a very near thing, but he kept it together enough to seem like he was listening stoically as Iverson continued talking words at him he didn’t currently have the mental faculties to hear. He somehow managed to shake everyone’s hands, and make it back to his room without throwing up.

 

 

 

 

 

    “Lance, you’re my best friend, so I need you to do something for me,” said Hunk later that evening.

    “Hunk, you’re _pale_ , what’s the matter?” asked Lance. Hunk took a deep breath.

    “I need you to break my leg,” he said dramatically. Hunk couldn’t do it himself, he was _way_ too squeamish.

    “You need me to _what_ now?” squeaked Lance.

    “Or my arm. Either will do--”

    “You’re joking right?”

Hunk’s silence was damning.

    “Okay, sit down and tell me what happened,” ordered Lance, voice holding a quiet gravity that he didn’t bring out very often. Ninety-five percent of the time Lance was a lovable goofball, but when the situation called for it, he could be serious. Five percent of the time he could be somber.

    “Holy crow!” Lance exclaimed on the heels of Hunk’s explanation, eyes comically wide.

   “So that’s why I need you to break my leg. Matt Holt isn’t going because he broke his _arm_ , so if my _leg_ is broken, neither will I, and it won’t look like I copied him--”

    “Buddy, I’m _not_ gonna break your leg,” interrupted Lance.

    “Please?” whined Hunk.

    “Look Hunk, they picked you ‘cause you’re the smartest guy in our year,” said Lance, clapping him on the back, his expression caught somewhere between jealousy and excitement.

    “You’re gonna go to space, you’ll come back just fine, and then you’ll tell me all about it,” said Lance confidently.

    “I’m scared, man,” Hunk admitted, wringing his hands.

    “I know, but I _also_ know that you can do this. _The_ Takashi Shirogane is going to be on this mission, your life couldn’t be in safer hands.”

    “What if I mess up?” Hunk asked in a small voice. “I’ll be in charge of maintenance, and fixing anything that breaks down. What if I can’t?”

    “Hunk, you fixed something that was meant to be _impossible_ to fix. I have complete faith in you, man. You should too.” Lance’s confidence and conviction was a powerful thing, it’d be nice if Hunk could bottle some to take to space with him.

    “Okay… thanks, Lance.” Not for the first time, Hunk was grateful that fate had made him and Lance roommates their first semester at the Garrison, and best friends thereafter. They’d helped each other enormously through all the ups and downs of living away from home.

    “Anytime,” said Lance with his signature cocky grin, “and I hope you know I’d give my right arm for the chance to go on that mission,” he said, only half joking, “so I don’t wanna hear about you breaking anything to get out of it. Got it?”

    “Okay, okay.”

With that, Hunk put ideas of purposefully breaking a leg before the mission out of his mind for good.

  

 

 

 

 

    Hunk would let Lance take his place in a heartbeat, but Lance was a pilot, not an engineer. Heck, he’d let _anyone_ take his place, but at the end of the day, the whole point of attending the Galaxy Garrison was to go to space. He knew that when he accepted the scholarship, just like when he accepted the liability that if he refused to obey all Garrison directives, the penalty was expulsion and paying back all the tuition he’d received which... there was _no way_ his family could afford that.

He didn’t want to leave Earth… but seeing as he wasn’t going to purposefully maim himself, he didn’t really have a choice.

On the brightside, being on active duty meant he’d get paid. When he called home to tell his family the news, and told his mom how much money he’d be able to send back to them, she’d _cried_ at the figure he’d given her. It was that more than anything else that steeled Hunk’s resolve to suck it up. His family had sacrificed a lot to give him better opportunities on account of how _well_ he did in school, it was his turn to give back.

 

 

 

 

 

    Hunk had _two_ weeks to prepare, mentally and otherwise. He was taken out of his regular classes and drilled by special tutors in the mechanical and electrical specifics of the craft he would be responsible for maintaining. The ship that Takashi Shirogane would pilot to the edge of the solar system…

He spent time in Samuel Holt’s lab, learning about how to collect ice cores, and pouring over microscope slides of primitive earth cyanobacteria.

    “Call me Sam, son,” Samuel Holt had said to him the first time they met, delighted by the fact that Hunk could understand his research. Matthew Holt was there too, more often than not, and the father and son would get into long winded intellectual discussions that Hunk would occasionally interrupt to offer an opinion or a comment. (“Matt, why didn’t you double-modulate the gendocam?” “It isn’t a vlexagane, double-modulating would be a waste of a button press.” “ _Thank you_ , Hunk. I’ve been saying that for _years!_ ”)

    Hunk also ran several flight simulations with Takashi Shirogane. To his mortification, the very first thing he ever said to the guy was “can I have your autograph?”

It wasn’t his fault. Lance had bugged him the _entire_ night before and that _entire_ morning to get it for him, and as such, it was the first thing that came tumbling out of his mouth in the face of… all that.

‘All that’ being Takashi Shirogane’s perfectly chiseled jaw, his kind eyes, his broad shoulders, and his intimidating height. It wasn’t very often that Hunk was forced to look _up_ at people, Shiro had to be pushing the height restriction for pilots.  

    “Six foot three and a half, I’m _just_ under the mandatory maximum, and please, call me Shiro,” Shiro answered, because apparently Hunk had exclaimed that out loud.

    “Call me Hunk,” Hunk replied, taking the hand Shiro offered him to shake.

Hunk felt a little traitorous for thinking it, but flying with Shiro was nothing at all like flying with Lance. Flying with Lance, Hunk was always hyper aware of the fact that they were in a flimsy metal box with thrusters stuck on, one wrong move away from exploding into pieces (at least, they would be if they were _really_ in space and not in a simulator).

Flying with Shiro was like witnessing true genius, seeing _art_ in motion. Lance flew like a chicken in comparison to Shiro’s cool peregrine falcon, and it did wonders for Hunk’s nerves.    

Shiro was a pretty cool guy in general; he ended up actually giving Hunk his autograph after that first meeting. Lance was so pleased with it that he pinned it up beside his Shiro recruitment poster, and in turn, Lance’s happiness with the gift assuaged Hunk’s guilt for privately preferring Shiro as a pilot.

 

 

 

 

     Before Hunk knew it, lift-off day arrived. Two short weeks of intensive training had made him as prepared as he’d ever be for this, in addition to the three years he’d spent as a cadet.

His family flew in to see him off, and he also had Lance come along. Samuel Holt’s family was there too, including Matt - still in a cast - and the kid sister who presumably precipitated Hunk’s involvement in all this by going stargazing with her brother in the first place.

Shiro only had a cadet with him, wearing the same crisp orange uniform that Lance was wearing. That Hunk _used_ to wear.

    “That’s Keith Kogane!” Lance hissed like an offended cat, and it clicked for Hunk who that was; Lance’s self-proclaimed ‘rival.’

    “Oh, _kalofae_ , is he your friend?” Hunk’s mom asked, face creased in sympathy. Keith looked smaller and sadder than Hunk had ever seen him before.

    “He’s my _rival_ ,” said Lance.

    “He’s our _classmate_ ,” corrected Hunk.

When the time came to say his proper final goodbyes, everything became a bit of a blur. Time seemed to move faster, stealing away his last moments of safety on Earth.  

Hunk bawled like a baby, and hugged every member of his family like he never wanted to let go. Even though he manfully tried to hide it, Lance had tears rolling down his cheeks too. Hunk suspected that Lance would be a mess just like him if it wasn’t for that fact that _Keith_ was there to impress, or, if you asked Lance, _beat_.

Samuel Holt’s daughter cried as much as Hunk’s mother did, while Shiro stayed maddeningly stoic, shooting Keith Kogane one last encouraging smile as they were taken away to prepare for lift-off. His parting words were “remember, patience yields focus, Keith.”

The last thing Hunk saw before the doors to the prep room swished shut behind him, was Lance sidling up beside Keith Kogane, who had his face downturned so his bangs covered his eyes, to poke him in the shoulder and offer him a tissue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

    The lift off was as bad as Hunk had expected it to be. The only positive thing about it was that he managed to not throw up.

And then he was in _space_ , watching as the Earth shrunk from the size of his entire world, to the size of a beach ball, to the size of a grape.

    Neil Armstrong was right; it was a confronting feeling, being able to block out the Earth with his thumb. Made him feel small; something Hunk didn’t feel very often. Every single person that was and had ever been was on that tiny blue and green marble, suspended in the vastness of space, getting smaller and smaller as they ventured further and further towards the edges of the solar system, until Earth was no bigger than a mote of dust. It occured to Hunk that Earth looked achingly _vulnerable,_ suspended there like that.    

    After doing their mandatory exercises (meant to prevent their muscles from atrophying), carrying out their various duties for scientific inquiry (on Sam’s part), making sure they were going in the correct direction (on Shiro’s part), and making sure the ship didn’t break down or fall apart (on Hunk’s part), they didn’t have all that much free time. But what little time they _did_ have they spent talking and playing cards.

Hunk learned that Shiro was Keith’s mentor and friend, and that the younger boy had been at the launch because Shiro didn’t have any living family members left to see him off.

He learned that Sam’s daughter’s name was Katie, and that she had dreams of following in her brother’s footsteps and attending the Galaxy Garrison.

He learned how to play Poker. He learned that Sam was very good at Poker, and that Shiro was very _not_ good at Poker.

He received communications from his friends and family on Earth. As the months wore on, they took longer and longer to arrive.

The videos of his family back in Samoa, smiling faces lit with the natural light of the sun, speaking the comforting language of his childhood, brought Hunk to tears with longing on more than one occasion, (Sam and Shiro were tactful enough to ignore this), while the videos Lance sent him he ended up showing to the other two men because they were so funny. Lance was very… _expressive_ , and he tended to do impressions to animate events that Hunk had missed. His impression of how Iverson had reacted when he caught Lance sneaking back in after a night out brought Sam to _tears_ , and his impression of Keith being surly make Shiro chuckle fondly.

    “Ask your friend to keep an eye on Keith, would you?” 

A week later Shiro received a communication from Earth which prompted him to tell Hunk, “Actually... maybe tell your friend to just leave Keith be,” as he scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

 

 

 

 

    After months of flying through space, cooped up in their small shuttle, they arrived at Kerberos. It was very tiny and unimpressive to look at, however the view they got of Pluto and Charon from its surface was one of the most beautiful things Hunk had even seen. 

Their first time unit there (time unit because Kerberos was tidally locked with Pluto, and didn’t really have distinguishable ‘days’ and ‘nights’), they unpacked their equipment and got to work setting up the khab (Kerberos lander habitat). It would be their home for the next month while they conducted their research. Hunk was incredibly impressed once again by the ingenuity of the engineers who had designed their mission equipment because it was ridiculously easy to set everything up.  

They spent their first ‘night’ in good spirits, cozy in their newly erected khab.

Eight hours later their alarms woke them up, and after a breakfast of astronaut rations (by this point Hunk was resigned to the bland but nutritious food), they headed out to begin collecting ice cores.   

It was the type of work that would have been backbreaking if they were on Earth, but as it was, the gravity on Kerberos was negligible and they were able to lift impressive volumes of samples with minimal effort.   

It was then Sam’s job to decide what was worth taking back in his little makeshift lab.

    “This is actually pretty exciting,” said Hunk, snug and safe in his extravehicular mobility unit (EMU), and able to communicate to the others through wireless coms in his helmet. Exposure and repetition had helped his nerves hugely, and the fact that space could kill him phased him far less than it did when they first left earth. It enabled him to actually focus on the science, which was pretty amazing. Sam Holt was a _genius._

    “This is history in the making. Not only have we traveled farther than any human ever has, but this ice could hold microscopic clues about the existence of life outside Earth!”

    “Fossil aliens would be cool, but lets hope we don’t meet any live ones,” Hunk joked, even though internally he was utterly serious.

He’d watched _Independence Day_ , and _War of the Worlds_ , and all of the _Alien_ franchise (at the behest of Lance - _Alien_ in particular had given him nightmares for _months_ ), and he could live perfectly happily _without_ humans meeting intelligent life during _his_ lifetime thank you very much. That was stress he very much did not need.

Only finding microscopic singular cellular life was a-ok with him.

Shiro and Sam both chuckled.

    “Had anyone ever told you that you don’t have much of a sense of adventure for an astronaut?” remarked Shiro fondly.  

    “It’s fine, we only need his thirst for scientific enquiry, and his engineering skills,” said Sam with a wry grin. “Astronauts are notoriously lacking in self-preservation instinct - hold that steady for me, son - I think Hunk’s mere presence on this mission has increased our chances of survival exponentially, Shiro.”

    “But seriously, guys, you don’t understand what a beautiful piece of engineering our ship is--” gushed Hunk earnestly, as he did as Sam had asked, holding the corer steady at the angle Sam had indicated.

Shiro groaned jokingly.

    “Not this again…” he said with a patient smile.

    “Look, I know I keep saying this, but I really _am_ going to bake the director of R &D a batch of my best blueberry muffins when we get back. In fact, I’m gonna bake the most delicious things for that whole team everyday for like a _month_ straight. We owe them our _lives_ , without this magnificent tech _space would kill us!_ ” Hunk had very strong feelings about this.  

    “Funny, I remember you saying you’d give them your first born child the first time you saw the hydraulic stabilisers…” teased Sam as he carefully calibrated corer.

    “I’ve had a think about it, and in all honestly, my baked goods are better value-”   

All of a sudden the ground started to shake beneath their feet, sending them all stumbling off balance.

   “What is that?! Seismic activity?” cried Sam.

Hunk’s thoughts raced.

It couldn't be, Hunk _knew_ it couldn’t be. Kerberos was solid and cold right through to it’s icy centre; totally lifeless. There was no driving force beneath their feet to fuel any sort of tectonic movement, heck the geology of Kerberos was _homogeneous,_ no crust, no mantle, no convection currents--

And then he saw it.

As huge as a floating skyscraper, made of some sort of pitch dark material with somehow _malevolent_ violet lights twinkling ominously all over it’s surface; an alien spaceship.

Hunk was too shocked to be terrified.

    “Get back to the ship!” bellowed Shiro, snapping Hunk out of his stupor. He immediately dropped the corer, feeling a twinge of regret for the cylinder of ice inside that would undoubtedly be cracked and broken into useless pieces.

The three of them ran like their lives depended on it - Hunk had personally never moved so fast in his _life_ \- but it wasn’t fast enough.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder, only to see the ground buckling and bending, bathed in awful violet light. Their equipment was wrenched into space, the mental twisting grotesquely, and then the violet light moved and Hunk was caught.

The last thing he heard was a blend of Shiro and Sam’s voices, screaming in tandem, and then he was weightless, and everything went dark.    

 

 

 

 

He woke up to a kick in the gut.

    “Get up,” ordered a harsh, cruel voice.  

Bewildered and afraid, Hunk did as he was told, staggering to his feet. His wrists were grabbed, and thick black cuffs were tightly fastened around them. With an electronic buzzing sound, the cuffs snapped together behind his back, and then something was pressed harshly into his shoulder blade as that same cruel voice ordered him to move.

Ahead of him he saw Sam and Shiro being similarly herded by beings that Hunk could only describe as _alien._

They were enormous, towering two feet over Shiro’s head, with purple skin, unnerving yellow eyes, and sleek, futuristic looking armor. Or were they spacesuits?  

Another harsh poke in the back forced Hunk to keep moving, and stop staring.

Eventually he found himself in what he recognized to be some sort of alien control room, if control rooms were the size of a small cathedral, with floor to ceiling windows opening to a view of space.  

In the middle of the room was a dais, with several control panels, and an alien that was clearly in charge going by their more elaborate dress and erect posture.

Above him, hovering in midair, was what looked like a huge holo-screen. Hunk gawked because that was some ridiculously advanced tech if it was, something he’d only ever seen in sci-fi.

And then he focused on what it was showing and his blood turned to ice in his veins.

There was a being imperiously surveying them through the holo screen, and something about them was _wrong_ in every way it was possible to be wrong.

It was the eyes. They were entirely golden and luminescent, just like the other aliens, but something about them was _dead_ inside. Dead and decaying.

Hunk felt like he was looking at death. He quickly averted his gaze when he felt the focus of that terrible being sweep over him. Hunk couldn’t tell where exactly he was looking because these aliens had no white sclera, but he could _feel_ it in the form of a dreadful shiver running down his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. His every instinct screamed _danger._

The alien that had been shoving him closer to the dais suddenly kicked the back of his legs, pushing his shoulder down hard, forcing him to his knees with a loud thud.  

Shiro and Sam were forced to their knees in a similar fashion beside him, with two more heavy thuds.

    “Emperor Zarkon,” said the leader reverently, addressing the holo screen, “we were scouting System X-9-Y as ordered when we found these primitive scientists. I do not think they know anything useful.”  

The terrible being - _Emperor Zarkon_ \- spoke, and his dark voice, equally as dead as his eyes, made Hunk start to tremble.

    “Take them back to the main fleet for interrogation. The druids will find out what they know,” he intoned emotionlessly.

_Fleet? Druids?_

    “Please, we come from a peaceful planet! W-We mean you no harm! We're unarmed!” cried Shiro; he must have lost his helmet at some point. Hunk had never heard Shiro sound anything other than calm and in control, and it was frightening. Shiro was _scared._

One of the aliens hit him in the head with the butt of some sort of weapon, and Shiro folded to the ground like a house made of cards.

Hunk was hyperventilating now, barely able to _breathe_ , much less think. There was a shrill alarm blaring in his ear - his suit telling him that his oxygen levels were low - but Hunk couldn’t comprehend it over the sound of his rapidly pounding heartbeat.

Someone hit him until he got back to his feet, and then kept hitting him again until he lurched forward into an uncoordinated march. His feet felt like they were weighed down by cinder-blocks…

Ahead of him, an alien dragged Shiro’s unconscious body, as if he weighed _nothing_ , by the scruff of his suit.   

They walked and walked deeper into the bowels of the ship, and Hunk’s vision frayed and blackened around the edges as he struggled to breathe, struggled to keep his trembling, sluggish, limbs moving, least they start hitting him again.

They were taken to an immense cavern of a room, at least the size of a football field, that looked like some sort of nightmarish panopticon prison. There were rows upon rows of doors with steel bars; it seemed that _some_ things were universal.

They came to a halt abruptly, and an alien stepped up to one of the doors and pressed something on a control pad beside it, causing it to spring open.

The cuffs holding Hunk’s arms together separated with an electronic buzz, and then he was unceremoniously shoved inside, followed closely by Shiro and Sam. The door slammed shut with a resounding clang behind them.   

They were in a tiny cell of a room, lit with that awful violet light these aliens seemed to favor.

All Hunk could think about was that they were going to die. He’d never get to see his family again, or his friends, because he was going to die right here in this tiny cell because he couldn't _breathe_ \--

Black spots danced in his vision as Sam and Shiro’s voices passed passively in one ear and out the other, the words incomprehensible through the muddled panic fogging his brain, and the unrelenting warning beep in his helmet.

_“--okay, Shiro?”_

_“Not that bad, don’t think I’m concussed--”_

_“You_ _sure?”_

_“Yes. See to Hunk--”_

_“Hunk…_ **_Hunk_ ** _…”_

The volume of Sam’s voice suddenly turned up, the beeping ceased, and Hunk was finally able to draw in a proper breath, it but it wasn’t _enough._

    “ _Iosefa_ , look at me, son,” calloused hands held his face. The use of his full first name had Hunk reflexively looking up.

Sam’s face swam in front of him, and Hunk realized it was because his eyes were filled with tears.

    “C-c-can’t b-breathe, need a-air--” he choked out. He dimly registered that he was having a panic attack. This wasn’t the first time this had happened to him; his first year at the Garrison Lance had had to calm him down on a few occasions

    “I know it feels that way, but you’re hyperventilating. You need to _slow down_ ,” said Sam calmly, setting one hand against Hunk’s back.

On an intellectual level, Hunk _knew_ this. Hyperventilation led to hypoxia because you were breathing out too much carbon dioxide leading to alkalisation of the blood. He was starving his tissues of much, much needed oxygen, and giving himself alkalosis, but his rational brain wasn’t in control, his lizard one was, and the lizard brain said _Danger! Panic!_

    “I’m going to count and you’re going to breathe in for four, and out for four, okay? _In_ , two, three, four, _out_ , two, three, four--”

Sam tapped his back in time with his counting, and slowly the black receded from the corners of Hunk’s vision as his breathing gradually evened out.

At some point, Shiro had shifted and sat himself down beside Hunk, taking his hand in a comfortingly solid grip. They sat there long enough for one of Hunk’s legs to fall asleep, and the cold of the room to seep into his open EVA suit, chilling his exposed face and neck.

    “I’m s-sorry I panicked,” he whispered once he managed get a grip on himself, “It’s just… we aren’t ever going back to Earth, are we? We’re gonna d-die out here, aren’t we?” he whispered, voice hitching embarrassingly.

    “We don’t know that, Hunk. We don’t know what they want,” said Sam, trying to be comforting.

Hunk caught the look he exchanged with Shiro, however.

A look that confirmed Hunk’s statement.

Hunk closed his eyes, but it didn’t stop the steady flow of tears dripping down his face.

 

 

 

 

 

    He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he was woken by their cell door swinging open.  

He barely had time to blink away the sleep crusting his eyes before Shiro was springing to his feel to stand deliberately in front of him and Sam, putting himself between them and the contingent of huge purple aliens at the door.

    “What do you want with us? Where are we?” Shiro demanded, voice impressively steady.

They weren’t deigned with a response. One of the aliens pointed something at them, and then the cuffs around their wrists snapped back together, restraining their arms behind their backs.

One alien grabbed Shiro roughly and started hauling him away none too gently, and then another stepped into the cell to grab Hunk and yank him to his feet. Hunk presumed that the alien that stepped into the cell after he was removed would grab Sam.

    “Where are you taking us?” demanded Shiro ahead of him in their procession, digging his heels in a little while the alien dragged him along easily by the grip they had on his arm.

    “Quiet,” grunted the alien at his back, cuffing him around the ear and sending him stumbling before yanking him back roughly.

 _Please don’t_ \- Hunk wanted to beg - _don’t antagonize them,_ but he felt as if his mouth was wired shut by how afraid he was.

    “Shiro,” murmured Sam, a gentle warning, echoing Hunk’s thoughts.

No one said anything more, and Shiro offered no further resistance as they were herded out of the prison block, and down corridors lit with violet light.

Their final destination was a room that looked like an operating theatre, all sleek metal benches with some truly horrific looking instruments surrounding them. Hunk spotted what looked like an honest-to-god _bonesaw_ and it took everything ounce of self-control he had not to whimper or burst into tears.

    “Where did we pick these up?” asked a silky voice. Hunk hadn’t even noticed the owner of the voice appearing in the room, it was as if they had materialized out of thin air.  

They were wearing a billowy black cloak, and a strange mask that had four yellow eyes. Much like Zarkon, this being immediately gave Hunk _danger_ vibes.

    “The edge of system X-9-Y,” replied one of the purple aliens.

The three of them were roughly manhandled onto a bench each. The cuffs around their wrists separated, only for cold metal restraints to smoothly slide over their entire bodies, pinning each of them by the shoulders and hips like logs strapped down on the back of a truck.  

Hunk saw Shiro struggling out of the corner of his eye, but it was no use.

    “Let’s begin with that one,” said the cloaked creature, gliding over to position itself in front of Sam.

    “What are you doing?! Let us go, _leave him alone!_ ” yelled Shiro.

    “ _Quiet,_ you,” snapped one of the guards.

    “We come in _peace!_ Just let us go, don’t hurt him-”

    “Muzzle him,” ordered the cloaked figure.

    “ _No_ \-- you _can’t-_ ” Shiro’s protests were cut off and muffled with the metallic click of one of the aliens fixing something over his face.

Hunk closed his eyes, and he retreated inwardly, away from the horrible reality that was happening to them. His frightened mind latched on to reciting a prayer, his native tongue offering a tiny bit of comfort as his lips moved soundlessly.

 _Lo matou Tamä e, oi le lagi,_ _  
_ _Ia paia lou suafa--_

Sam let out a pained sound, and Hunk couldn’t bear to look and see what they were doing to him. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, trembling in fear, trying to focus on the words playing in his head. Trying to make them block out what was happening.  

 _La o’o mai lou malo,_ _  
_ _Ia faia lou finagalo, i le lalolagi e pei ona faia i le lagi--_

Shiro rattled his restraints beside Hunk, still struggling to get free.

“Patience, _you’re_ next,” said one of the aliens nastily.

Minutes passed where all Hunk could hear was Sam’s labored breathing, and Shiro fruitlessly shifting.

  _Ia o’o mai lou malo,_  
_Ia faia lou finagalo, i le lalolagi e pei ona faia i le lagi,_  
_Ia e foa’i mai ia te’i matou i le aso nei a matou mea’ai e tatau ma le aso,_ _  
_    _Ia e fa’amagalo ia te’i matou ia matou agasala--_

    “This one knows nothing,” declared the cloaked alien eventually, “Not a good specimen for the fighting pits; its age is advanced for its species. It is weak, and fragile, however it could be useful in the research division. Take it away to the relevant processing center.”

_Fighting pits? Processing center?_

Metal clinked as Sam was released from his restraints. There was a bodily ‘thump’ and a swish of the doors as he was dragged away.

    “I doubt these two will know anything, but we shall be thorough.”

Hunk heard a rustle of fabric as the cloaked creature swept past him, and halted in front of Shiro.

    “Such defiance…” it said darkly.

For a moment Shiro’s struggles became even more fervent, and then abruptly the telltale sounds of clanking metal ceased altogether, and Shiro made a small choked off sound that made Hunk whimper sympathetically.

Oh god. Oh god. He was next, whatever that thing was doing to Shiro, whatever it had done to Sam, had _hurt,_ and they were going to _hurt_ him--

He tried to finish his mental recital, barely keeping himself from breaking down.

  
     _E pei ona matou fo’i ona matou fa’amagaloina atu,_  
_I e ua agaleaga mai ia te’i matou,_  
     _Aua fo’i e te ta’ita’iina i matou i le fa’aosoosoga,_ _  
_       _A_  ia _e lavea’i ia i matou ai le leaga--_

 

    “Excellent, this one will be a great contender…” murmured the creature, “Take it to processing for the pits.”

It was his turn now. The rustling of that cloak was headed straight for him, and all Hunk could do was screw his eyes shut even _tighter_ , like a child thinking that if they had their eyes closed the monster wouldn’t be able to see them.

  
_Auä e ou le malo,_ __  
_ma le mana, atoa ma le viiga,  
__E faavavau lava--_

 

Something cold and clammy _squeezed_ his consciousness, and Hunk spluttered and struggled for breath even though nothing was physically touching him.

It was as if they were taking a potato peeler to his head, scraping away his skull to get at the soft tissue of his brain. It felt like they were searching, barging their way in into his head, looking for information, carelessly trampling anything that got in its way.  

Hundreds of images and sensations flashed through his mind’s eye, dragged up painfully without his consent.

The last time he saw his father, being small and lifted onto broad shoulders-- The time his older cousins baited him into climbing a tree and laughed at him when he got scared at the top and cried-- Dappled sunlight through the leaves of the banana tree in his front yard-- Getting in trouble from his grandmother for getting his good White Sunday clothes dirty before mass-- Singing in the choir-- His grandfather teaching him how to throw a proper punch-- Helping prepare the to’ona’i on Sundays; grating coconut meat for the fa’alifu, scraping taro for the saka-- Getting roped into fixing and servicing every piece of electrical equipment in his whole village from his elderly next door neighbor’s hundred year old sewing machine, to the decade old computers at the rundown library-- getting into the Garrison-- meeting Lance-- the launch for the Kerberos mission--

When it ended, his head felt like it had been cleaved in two, and he was panting as if he’d run ten miles.  

The creature was speaking again, speaking _about_ him, but Hunk couldn’t understand what it was saying even though the heard every word. He was still halfway stuck in the memories in his head.

    “It knows nothing useful. Take it to processing for the pits.”

_Amene._

 

 

 

 

    Time blurred. He was carried away as Sam and Shiro had been, limbs slack and uncooperative, his mind scrambling for a hold on reality.

He saw flashing violet lights. _He heard his younger cousins asking him to reach up and pick some mangoes for them because they couldn't reach-_ \- He felt the cool air of the alien spaceship sink into his body as he was peeled out of his EVA suit. _He felt a cool ocean breeze ruffling his hair--_

    “How primitive,” he heard a voice mutter derisively, pulling at his liquid cooling ventilation garment.

    “ _Sau i'i, lo'u atali'i,”_ murmured his mother in his head.

Strange machines were used to measure him, but Hunk didn’t understand what it was they were measuring about him based on the snippets of conversation he heard.

    “About twenty deca-phobes-”

    “Younger than the other specimen despite its size--”

    “Insensitive to quintessence--”

By the time they were done with him, Hunk had no idea how long he’d been poked and prodded and discussed as if he were specimen in a petri dish and not a sentient being.

They forced his sluggish limbs into a black suit made of some sort of stretchy material with deft impersonal touches, (“Only four limbs on these ones,” a voice had said), and had then him put a black tank top on over top.

The muddled haze eventually started to melt away, allowing Hunk to come back to himself. His captives seemed to realize this too.

    “Don’t want a repeat of the last one,” said one of the purple aliens, and then Hunk’s cuffed wrists were stuck together again. Was the last one Shiro? Hunk wondered what he’d done. He hoped Shiro was okay. He hoped Sam was okay too...

    “Processing of prisoner 117-9876 complete,” reported one of the aliens into some sort of coms device, and then Hunk was forced to his feet and led away.

Bewildered and confused, Hunk was shoved back through violet lit corridors that all looked identical to him, until he found himself back in the prison block.

He had no idea if the door they opened was the same cell as before; it all looked hopelessly the same to him, but when they roughly pushed him inside, there were arms to catch him as fell to his knees.

    “Hunk!” it was Shiro.

Shiro alone.

Sam wasn’t there.   

    “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” asked Shiro urgently, holding Hunk by the shoulders and peering into his face with concern.

Hunk’s lower lip trembled, and Shiro’s kind eyes blurred before him as his own filled with tears.

    “I want to go _home_ ,” he whispered, plaintive like a child. Shiro pulled him in for a hug.

    “You _will_ ,” he vowed fiercely.

Eventually, once his terrified tears ran out, Hunk fell into a fitful sleep with his head pillowed on Shiro’s shoulder.

 

 

 

 

    When Hunk next woke, it was because of voices speaking somewhere above his head. He duly registered that he had his head on Shiro’s lap, and he was crushing one of the poor man’s hands in a vice like grip like he was a security blanket.

In a way, he was. Hunk didn’t know what he’d do if he were here by himself.

    “--are lucky you never have,” an unfamiliar voice was saying.

    “Thank you for telling me,” Shiro replied.

Hunk sat up, but he didn’t let go of Shiro’s hand.

    “What’s going on?” he asked.

    “That’s Quilar,” explained Shiro, pointing to an alien looking face that was visible through the bars that lined the top of their cell.

    “They were explaining,” he said.

    “Explaining what?” asked Hunk.

    “How things work around here, and apparently the rest of the known universe. The people that took us prisoner? They’re called _Galra_. They’re colonizers.”

_Colonizers…_

There was a lot of things Hunk associated with that word, and absolutely none of it was positive. His breath hitched as something terrible occurred to him.

    “Earth-?”

    “ _Safe_. I think,” said Shiro very quickly, understanding immediately what Hunk was getting at.

    “How do you know?”

The alien in the cell next door - Quilar - piped up to answer.

    “System X-9-Y is very far from even the _edge_ of Galra territory, and contains no significant sources of quintessence. The Galra are methodical. They will not take your world until it is more convenient for them to do so.”   

    “How do you know?” asked Hunk.

    “Consider it an educated guess from someone whose home planet _was_ convenient, _and_ rich in quintessence,” they said, before slipping away from view.  

    “Why did they take us, Shiro? What are we here for?” asked Hunk fearfully.

Shiro’s jaw clenched, and his eyes went hard. He knew. The alien must have told him while Hunk was still asleep.

    “Tell me, or my imagination will fill in the gap with something a hundred times worse,” Hunk choked out.

Shiro sighed. It was an exhausted, heartbroken, sound.

    “Entertainment.”

    “What?” exclaimed Hunk in confusion.

    “Think… dog fighting ring,” said Shiro haltingly.

    “... we’re the dogs?”

Shiro nodded grimly.

A tiny spark of something hot flared to life in Hunk’s chest, something new and foreign. Something _dangerous_. It was quickly lost however, smothered by a wave of nausea, and it took everything Hunk had not to throw up.  

 

 

 

 

    It was hard to gauge the passage of time in the cell. Food (if the grey, tasteless, lumpy substance could even be _classified_ as food) was brought to them at indeterminate intervals, and the brightness of the sickly violet lights never changed to suggest the passing of days.

They didn’t discuss the purpose the Galra had in mind for them; it didn’t bear thinking about for Hunk. Every time the heavy footsteps of their jailers passed by the door, he tensed up and held his breath, trying to make himself as small and silent as possible, as if that would help him avoid their notice. Shiro tactfully chose not to comment on the way Hunk trembled, and how the blood would drain from his face.

He just took Hunk’s hand and squeezed it, remaining equally silent until the footsteps stopped outside some other poor soul’s cell to drag them away.

Sometimes they screamed for mercy, more often than not they stayed silent; every prisoner knew that the Galra had no mercy.

Sometimes the selected prisoner would return, more often than not they didn’t.

It was only a matter of time until it was their turn to be taken away.

 

 

 

 

 

    Hunk wouldn’t have retained his sanity without Shiro. Quilar was taken and never returned shortly after their arrival, triggering the worst panic attack Hunk could remember having for a while. Shiro held him through it, counting out breaths evenly until Hunk calmed down enough to regulate himself.

    When their time came, Hunk honestly didn’t know how much time had gone by. It wouldn’t have shocked him to find out days, or even weeks had passed with nothing but the same four walls, the same bland food, his own terror and panic, and Shiro.

The minute footsteps stopped outside their door, Shiro was on his feet, defensively standing in front of Hunk with his back ramrod straight, fists raised in front of his face. It was shocking to Hunk that Shiro could flip like a switch, one minute being comforting and holding Hunk’s hand as he cried, the next staring at their cell door with murder in his eyes.   

    “What do you want?” he snapped when the door swung open to reveal several armed Galra.

    “Today, you _fight_ ,” said one of the Galra.

Hunk thought of what Shiro said about dog-fighting rings as panic rose in this throat, thick and suffocating.

He couldn’t fight. Hunk _hated_ fighting, _hated_ confrontation, _hated_ physical violence. He couldn’t do it. He couldn't, he couldn't, he _couldn't._

    “Just take me, and leave him behind,” said Shiro, cutting through Hunk’s panic like a knife through butter with that statement.    

 _No_ . They couldn’t take Shiro, then he’d be _alone_.

The Galra ignored what Shiro said, and did something that made the cuffs on their wrists stick back together, restraining them.

One grabbed Shiro, and another hauled Hunk to his feet, pulling him out of the cell despite Shiro’s continued protests.

    “Are you listening to me? Leave him behind! You don’t need to take both of us--”

The Galra didn’t say a word, cuffing Shiro around the head and just dragged him along.

They were pushed along corridor after identical corridor. If he survived this, Hunk would be happy to never see violet light ever again.

He heard where they were being taken before he saw it; it sounded like they were approaching a soccer match with a rambunctious crowd watching.

They were shoved into a room filled with an array of aliens. All different skin colors, body types, and appendages, all lined up. They were roughly directed to the front of the cue, Hunk first, then Shiro, and then their hands were released.

Before them was a wide open door, and Hunk caught his first glimpse of the Arena. For some reason his mind flicked to his childhood, watching ancient reruns of anime at his cousin’s house.The arena looked like a futuristic, alien version of the venue for the World Martial Arts in Dragon Ball Z; a large tiled area surrounded by towering stands filled with screaming people, or rather, _aliens._

There was an alien with green skin and four arms fighting for their life in the ring, dressed in the same garb as Hunk, Shiro, and all the other prisoners.

The creature it was fighting against looking like an animated suit of armor, and it advanced on them like a swooping bird of prey; agile, precise, and deadly.

Hunk shut his eyes, but that did nothing to dampen the sound of metal hitting metal, followed closely by an awful, agonized cry…

    “You’re next,” said a cold voice, thumping Hunk in the arm, and making him stumble back into Shiro.

    “No one has ever seen one of your species fight. This will be entertaining,” it said nastily.

    “I can’t,” choked Hunk, turning to cling to Shiro in panic, clutching handfuls of his loose, threadbare tank top, “I _can’t_ , Shiro, I d-don’t know how to fight. I’m never g-gonna see my f-family again,” tears of terror welled in his eyes, and his breathing sped up, hitching erratically.

    “You will fight, or be killed,” said one of the Galra, grabbing Hunk firmly by the shoulder to drag him towards the arena. Another stood a short way off, holding out some sort of melee weapon that Hunk was apparently supposed to wield.

If the options were fight or be killed, Hunk was as good as dead. He could hardly even _breathe_ through the panic thrumming in his veins, let alone _fight._  

And then he was ripped out of the Galra’s grip, and send hurtling to the floor.

Shiro.

Shiro had grabbed him, and pushed him. Shiro was screaming in the Galra’s face like a crazed lunatic, words Hunk could hardly reconcile with what he knew of Shiro as a person. He looked, and sounded unhinged.

    “This is my fight! I want blood!” he screamed, ripping the weapon out of the other Galra’s hands, and spinning on his heel back towards Hunk.

Hunk flinched, threw his arms over his head, and yelped when he felt the blade slash his leg.

    “Sh-Shiro?” he whimpered.

For a moment they were face to face, and the unnatural snarl smoothed out so that Hunk could see that Shiro’s eyes were still kind.

    “You’ll see your family again, Hunk,” he murmured, so low that only Hunk could hear him, and then he was gone, into the arena, swallowed up by the roaring of the crowd.

 

 

 

 

    After that, Hunk shut down for a bit. He was taken away and put back into a cell.

An empty cell.

_Alone._

Shiro had taken his place in the arena, and in doing so, had probably saved Hunk’s life, forfeiting his own. Was Shiro going to be the last human he ever saw?

Hunk curled up in the far corner of his cell, wrapped his arms around himself, and cried.

 

 

 

 

    He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was being woken by the cell door swishing open.

    “Shiro!” Hunk cried, scrambling to his feet to catch the older man when he was unceremoniously shoved inside.

    “You’re alive!” he said, and he burst into noisy tears and threw his arms around Shiro’s waist, clinging to him like a child.

    “Th-thought you were _dead,_ man!”

    “I’m fine, Hunk,” said Shiro tiredly, patting him on the back, “could you loosen up? You’re crushing my ribs,” he said kindly.

    “S-sorry,” said Hunk, pulling back to wipe his eyes, “I’m just so _relieved_ that you’re okay.”

More relieved than he had words to express. He never wanted Shiro to die for him. Shiro managed to put on a weak smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

    “I’m fine,” he insisted, “is your leg okay? I’m so sorry, Hunk. I didn’t know what else to do-” Shiro looked so genuinely guilty and regretful that Hunk had to interrupt him.  

    “Shiro, you probably saved my life. It’s fine,” he said.

Shiro insisted on checking it over anyway.

    “See? Just a flesh wound,” said Hunk.

    “I’m still sorry.”

 

 

 

 

    Two days later the Galra came back to their cell, and this time when Shiro insisted that they only take him, they actually listened to him.

Hunk felt like he paced a groove into the floor of their cell in the hours that he waited for Shiro’s return, feeling like the worst sort of coward for every step. He’d just stood there cowering in the corner while they’d taken Shiro away, like a terrified child. He didn’t even know if they were bringing him back.

What would his father say? What would his grandfather, who’d died many years before he was even born, say? Both of them had died in active service, fighting for a country they weren’t even proper _citizens_ of. Both of them had died protecting others, and Hunk couldn’t even summon the mental fortitude to protect himself so Shiro wouldn’t have to do it for him.

    “I’m fine,” said Shiro when he came back, eyes hard, face covered in scratches and bruises.

Hunk still hugged him and blubbered like a baby, mindful this time not to crush Shiro’s ribs.

Even though he tried to hide it, Shiro moved stiffly, like something pained him. He agreed easily when Hunk offered his lap as a pillow, laying down on his side.

    “Hey, Shiro?” said Hunk around a huge lump forming in his throat. His hands were shaking, but it was something he needed to say.

    “Mmhm?” hummed Shiro.

    “Next time they come… I should go. I should fight, it should be _my_ turn--”

    “ _Absolutely not_ ,” Shiro’s voice was glacial, and sharp like the edge of a piece of paper.

He sat up abruptly, turning to look Hunk in the face, his expression hard.

    “B-but, Shiro. It’s not-- You-you can’t--”

    “Listen to me, Hunk,” said Shiro very seriously, “in the absence of Commander Holt, _I_ am in command of this mission. _You_ are my responsibility. As long as I’m here, and I can fight, I _won’t_ let them put you in that arena. Do you understand?”

Hunk was speechless, and incredibly humbled. He managed to nod, which seemed to satisfy Shiro enough to lay back down.

    “Sh-Shiro?” ventured Hunk a short while later.

    “Yeah?” replied Shiro.

    “Thanks.”

 

 

 

 

     In the long hours they spent alone in their cell together, Shiro divulged very little about what the Galra made him do in the arena, only the bare facts.

It was a robot they made him fight. A robot gladiator, with nothing but a crude melee weapon at his disposal to fight back. The robot was fast, and strong, but _predictable_.  

     “ _Patience yields focus_ , just had to be patient, and figure out it’s sequence,” Shiro explained reluctantly. Reluctant, because it wasn’t information he wanted Hunk to ever need.

Hunk wished neither of them needed it.

 

 

 

 

    It was Shiro who suggested that they memorize the movements of the guards, that it might come in handy to figure out if there was some sort of rhyme or reason to it all.

It was Hunk who actually did the memorizing. They still took Shiro for hours, sometimes whole _days_ , at a time, always returning him slightly worse for wear, with a horrible, detached look in his eyes.

During that time alone, Hunk had a lot of time to think and listen.

    About two months into their time there, they took Shiro and didn’t return him for a _week._ Hunk felt like he’d go _mad_ out of his mind with worry, and he hardly slept so he could listen carefully for the telltale sounds of the Galra soldiers’ footsteps. He stubbornly refused to even entertain the thought that Shiro might not have made it. He _had_ to.

When Shiro was finally returned, it was with an angry red mark across the bridge of his nose.

    “Shiro! What happened!?” Hunk breathed the minute the Galra that dropped Shiro off were out of earshot.   

    “It’s nothing,” said Shiro dismissively, bending easily to Hunk’s will when he guided him to sit down against their cell wall.

Hunk sat down beside him, and gently urged Shiro to lay his head down in Hunk’s lap.

    “It’s not nothing… it looks painful,” said Hunk tremulously, biting his lip.

    “It isn’t, don’t worry about it, I’m fine,” Shiro insisted.

The silence that followed was pregnant with what Shiro refused to share. He was trying to shoulder the burden of their captivity on his own, trying to spare Hunk as much as was possible, but Hunk only wanted to _help._ Shiro was strong, maybe the _strongest_ person Hunk knew, but he noticed the tremor in Shiro’s hands. He noticed how even though Shiro was lying down, he was tense. He was _always_ tense, coiled tightly with terrible awareness of what the Galra wanted to do to them...

    “Can you--” Shiro broke the silence, and then cut himself off abruptly.

    “Can I-? What? What is it?” asked Hunk, ready to do just about anything Shiro asked of him; he was beyond relieved that Shiro was alright.

    “Can you tell me something good, Hunk?” he asked quietly, sounding uncharacteristically young and hesitant. Something good… Earth was good. Hunk longed for Earth, longed for the boring and mundane little details that made Earth home.

    “Well… in my room back at the Garrison, there’s a poster of you on the wall,” he said.

    “Wh-what?” gasped Shiro.

    “It’s Lance’s, he’s a big fan you know, you’re sort of his hero. Remember how I asked for your autograph the first time I met you? That was for _Lance_.”

Shiro laughed.

    “I’d forgotten that they made me pose for that, I _hated_ that poster,” he said, sounding fond and nostalgic.

    “Why’d they make you do that?” asked Hunk curiously.

    “It’s what they wanted in exchange for accepting Keith’s application to attend the Garrison. Despite scoring excellently on the simulator, his track record made him a risk,” explained Shiro.

That made sense; despite Keith’s prodigious skill as a pilot, Hunk remembered him getting into an awful lot of fights when they were younger.

     “What kinda track record?” asked Hunk. Sue him, he was nosy, but Shiro had already nodded off.

 

 

 

 

 

    “Why’re you called Hunk?” asked Shiro a few weeks later, head in Hunk’s lap as Hunk absentmindedly ran his finger through Shiro’s hair. It was a nervous compulsive gesture that Hunk had started one day accidentally. He’d apologized profusely and promised to stop when he realized, but Shiro said he didn’t mind if it made Hunk feel better, so here they were.

    “What was that?” asked Hunk; he hadn’t been paying attention to what Shiro was saying. He was busy internally fretting over the deep red gouge across the bridge of Shiro’s nose that only seemed to be getting worse and worse every time the Galra came and took him away to fight, but he’d been tight-lipped about what was causing it. He was tight-lipped about everything that happened to him when they took him away, only giving Hunk the barest of details like, “fought in the arena today,” or “more tests today.”  

    “I said, why’re you Hunk?” Shiro repeated, sounding sluggish; he was bone-tired. He was always bone-tired these days.

    “Oh! I was named after my grandfather,” exclaimed Hunk, “they used to call me ‘little Iosefa’ and him ‘big Iosefa’ to differentiate us, but then I grew bigger, and it really confused my younger cousins, so one day one of them tried to say I was like the Hulk, except they accidentally called me Hunk. It sort of snowballed from there until _everyone_ was calling me Hunk,” he said sheepishly.

    “Nicknames are funny. I was named after my grandfather too,” said Shiro.

    “ _Really?_ So, Takashi?” said Hunk.

    “Mmhm. Takashi,” Shiro confirmed, “and I was raised by him so having the same name was a little confusing. Hence, Shiro instead.”  

On the one hand, Hunk was tickled that they had that in common; named after a grandfather, with a nickname to avoid confusion. On the other hand, Hunk wondered what had happened to Shiro’s parents.

 

 

 

 

    “Car accident,” Shiro told him a few days later when Hunk asked in a moment of weakness. You see, although he spent a lot of time terrified out of his skull, he also spent a lot of time _bored_ out of it. Being locked in a bare cell for huge swaths of time was _boring_.

    “I was only three so I don’t really remember much. I went to live with my grandparents, but my grandmother died when I was eight so it was just me and my grandfather for a long time,” Shiro explained, with an impressive amount of equanimity considering the subject matter.   

    “I was three when my dad died,” Hunk offered, “he died in active service… his father did too; my grandfather. The one I’m not named after.”

That conversation was cut short with the arrival of the Galra to take Shiro away again. When they returned him hours and hours later, the red mark across his face was _bleeding_.  

    “What did you do to him!” Hunk cried, catching Shiro under the arms when a Galra pushed him into the cell, off balance.

The Galra ignored him.

The tiny spark in Hunk’s chest was starting to _itch_.

    “Hey, I’m talking to you!” he yelled, his righteous fury and worry outweighing his fear of punishment and retribution for once.

    “ _Quiet_ , or we’ll muzzle you too,” snapped the Galra.

That tiny spark was on _fire_ now. A muzzle. The put a fucking _muzzle_ on Shiro? Like he was an _animal_? Was that what was causing the wound across the bridge of his nose?

    “Can you at least bring some medical supplies!?” he shouted.

    “Hunk, don’t,” said Shiro, quietly and firmly with a hand on his shoulder.

Hunk’s words went unacknowledged, and they were locked in their cell alone once more.

    “This isn’t _right_ ,” said Hunk, tears of frustration gathering in his eyes.

    “I know,” replied Shiro.

    “You don’t deserve this! They shouldn’t be doing this to us! To _any_ of the aliens they have prisoner!”

    “ _I know_. I know, Hunk,” said Shiro, helplessly, wrapping his arms around the younger boy’s shoulders.

    “It’s not fair that they keep hurting you, it isn’t _fair._ ”

Hunk cried into Shiro’s firm shoulder, uncaring that the blood from Shiro’s wound was probably getting on him as he squeezed him around his middle tightly.  

    “I know, I know,” Shiro murmured, sounding less than composed for once too.

They sank to the ground in a heap of limbs, with nothing but each other for comfort.

 

 

 

 

    The cut on Shiro’s face got deeper and longer as the weeks passed, never able to fully heal before he was taken away again. The worse it got, the hotter that spark in Hunk’s chest burned.

After the second time, Hunk no longer demanded medical supplies when the Galra dropped Shiro off; it only made Shiro anxious when Hunk drew attention to himself that way. On the one hand, Hunk understood why Shiro felt that way; that was how _he’d_ felt about Shiro doing the very same thing when they’d first arrived, but on the other hand, biting his tongue was getting harder and harder.

    “What do you think our families are doing back on Earth?” asked Hunk one day as he played with Shiro’s hair.

    “Mourning us… the Garrison probably told them we died, Hunk,” said Shiro.

    “No, no, no, you’re doing it wrong,” said Hunk, “here, like _this_ ,” he cleared his throat theatrically, “It’s summer back home at the moment, which doesn’t really matter all that much when you live on the equator. The seasons are more like dry-hot or wet-hot, you only get two options, so it’s _wet_ -hot at the moment.”

    “My Mom is annoyed that the rain won’t let up so she can put the washing out to dry, and my Nana is cooking _sapa sui_ for dinner, with _pisua_ for desert. While she’s cooking, my Nana is probably yelling at my brother Tavita to come fix the aircon for her. It’s a bit temperamental. I taught him how to make it work before I left, but there probably isn’t anything wrong with it. Nana probably just forgot which button it is to turn it on. Do you get it?” asked Hunk.

Shiro let out a whooshing sigh.

    “Yeah, lemme try that again,” he breathed, “Round about now the cadets will be sitting finals at the Garrison, so Keith is probably studying for them…” Shiro faltered, so Hunk stepped in to help, “Maybe he’s studying with my friend Lance,” he injected.

Shiro smiled.

    “That would be nice, I always hoped for Keith to make more friends. Although, are they studying, or posturing?” he asked.

    “I dunno about Keith, but Lance is _definitely_ posturing,” said Hunk fondly.

    “Keith is probably pretending he isn’t, but really he is,” said Shiro, equally fondly.  

    “Maybe being competitive will help them ace their exams. What else?”

    “I left him my hover-bike, so on free days Keith goes flying in the desert. He always looked happiest when he was flying,” said Shiro wistfully.

Their reminiscing was cut off by a Galra arriving to take Shiro away again.

 

 

 

 

 

    “It was an accident, you know,” Hunk admitted a week later, “I was sick and I wasn’t really listening when the instructor explained that it was an exercise to test our mental fortitude or whatever to keep our cool when things break down. I didn’t know it was supposed to be impossible to fix.”

    “So you fixed it,” said Shiro.

    “Yeah, so I fixed it.”

    “I’m sorry that you’re here… that’s partially my fault. And Sam’s. We looked over all the applicants and decided that you fit best--”

    “Don’t be sorry,” Hunk cut in, “if it wasn’t me, it’d just be someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I _hate_ it here, but I’d never blame you.”

Some tension Hunk hadn’t been aware of visibly left Shiro’s body, and he slumped against a wall.

This was entirely the Galra’s fault. All Shiro had done was protect him since they’d been taken into captivity, and Hunk could never blame him.

 

 

 

 

    Months into their captivity, Hunk had the movements of the guards memorized down to the second. The only thing that didn’t adhere to some sort of pattern was when they came for Shiro. Sometimes a week or two would pass before they came for him, other times they would come for him within days. The mark across the bridge of his nose had scarred after being rubbed red, and then cut open so many times. Hunk worried constantly that it would get infected, but it never did.

Hunk had offered to take Shiro’s place again, multiple times, but he steadfastly refused. It was getting to the point where Hunk honestly wished Shiro would share some of the burden, would let Hunk carry his own weight and _help_ , because it was awful to see him suffering.

It was strange, but the longer he was locked up, the more pale, and drawn, and shaky Shiro became, the better handle Hunk had on his nerves. Maybe his lizard brain was getting sick of him being terrified all time, and calling him out for crying wolf; it was _exhausting_ being scared all the time. Or maybe the spark burning in his chest, fueled by the injustice of what was happening to them, was just growing stronger than his fear of what might happen to him.

And then Shiro was taken away and not returned for the longest amount of time they’d ever kept him. A whole fortnight.

Hunk felt like he was going out of his _mind_ with worry. He paced the tiny cell, did press ups and sits up until he couldn’t anymore, fiddled with the cuffs still attached to his wrists, all in an effort to retain his sanity.

What if Shiro had been killed in the arena? Did that mean that next time the Galra came it would be his turn to fight?

Hunk wasn’t a violent person by nature. He didn’t like seeing it, and he didn’t like inflicting it, but if Shiro was _dead_ , if the Galra had _killed_ him… well, they would get the fight they’d been waiting for from him.  

 

 

 

 

    When they finally returned Shiro, it was during the depths of the night cycle. Hunk had become a light sleeper by necessity, so he was easily woken by the tell-tale sounds of approaching Galra. He was on his feet and impatient by the time the door swished open.  

Two Galra were carrying Shiro’s limp form between them and there was something wrong. Something _very_ wrong.

They’d never returned him like this before; limp, fragile, and barely conscious.

Shiro let out a pained moan when one of the Galra holding him up shifted his weight, and the sound was _wrong_ . Someone so strong, and selfless, and _good_ should _never_ have to make a sound like that.

    “What did you do to hi-” Hunk’s question shrivelled up in his suddenly constricted throat, because Hunk could _see._ It was _all_ he could see, and it was wrong wrong _wrong._

The space where Shiro’s right arm was meant to be was _empty._

His right arm was _gone._

Hunk moved forward automatically to catch Shiro when the Galra dropped him, barely sparing them his attention as they quickly retreated from the cell.

    “H-Hunk?” whimpered Shiro weakly, eyelids fluttering, brows creased in confusion and pain.

    “I-I’m here. I’m here, Shiro,” said Hunk, helping Shiro take a few steps deeper into the cell.

    “H-hurts,” Shiro whispered.

    “Sorry! Sorry!” Hunk exclaimed, forcing himself to move even more slowly and gently, “Here, lie down…”

Every single pained sound Shiro made as Hunk lowered him felt like shards of glass being jabbed into his heart.

By the time Hunk situated them so that Shiro’s head was cradled in his lap, Shiro was breathing harshly, panting as if he’d been sprinting, not simply lying down.

Hunk let himself look at the stump of Shiro’s arm… it now cut off high on his bicep, and it was neatly wrapped with white gauze.

Shiro’s face was bleeding again too, but they hadn’t bothered cleaning up or dressing that; apparently the Galra only treated severed limbs.

Staring at it made Hunk feel simultaneously ill, and _furious_. The spark was a now roaring fire, consuming all his fear in a burst of righteous fury.

This wasn't right. Shiro didn’t deserve this, _none_ of the prisoners did.

    “My arm… th-they took my _arm_...” said Shiro brokenly, blinking up at Hunk as tears filled his eyes, and rolled sideways down his face.

Hunk felt his own eyes well up sympathetically, and then he was crying too, as if it was _his_ arm they had taken.

    “I’m sorry, Shiro,” said Hunk, taking Shiro’s remaining hand in his. “I’m _so_ sorry,” he used his other hand to gently wipe away Shiro’s tears as they fell, letting his own stream unimpeded down his face to drip off his chin. With every tear that fell, a fierce protectiveness rose in Hunk’s gut.

This wasn't right. This wasn’t fair. What the Galra were doing was _evil_ , and they needed to be stopped.

Eventually, utterly spent and exhausted, Shiro fell into a fitful slumber.

    “I won’t let them take anything else from you,” Hunk vowed, as he passed a hand through Shiro’s hair soothingly.

 

 

 

    “Can you… can you tell me something good, Hunk? Please?” Shiro said a few hours later, woken from sleep he desperately needed by phantom pains in his missing arm.  

    “Of course,” said Hunk, wracking his brains for something to say. Everything seemed so bleak and hopeless, it was hard to think of good things here, but Hunk would do it for Shiro. He cleared his throat.

    “For special occasions, by Nana makes pineapple pie,” said Hunk, “and she grows pineapples in her garden to put in them. People normally just used tinned stuff, but she insists that it’s better with _fresh_ pineapple. She’s old school like that. She also insists that the pastry is better when you mix it by hand with your fingers, and it used to frustrate my mom _so much_ because she bought her a fancy electronic mixer, only for Nana to turn around and never use it.”

Shiro let out a weak chuckle.

    “She sounds stubborn.”

    “She _is_ , like you wouldn’t _believe!”_ said Hunk fondly, “She’s like the _only_ person ever who calls me Iosefa and not Hunk. Anyway, now that she’s getting on in years, she always recruits one of us to help with the pastry-”

    “One of us?” murmured Shiro questioningly.

    “One of my cousins, or brothers, or sisters, or aunts, or uncles… I have a lot of family. Anyways, mostly it was _me_ she recruited, at least, before I left for the Garrison. She said the pastry turned out best when I made it, but I have a funny feeling that she always said that to whoever happened to be helping her that time.”

Hunk could almost hear her old weathered voice in his head, stern, but kind, _“Iosefa, fai fai pea...”_

    “What’s it taste like?” asked Shiro.

    “Oh man, it’s the _best_. The pastry is all soft and buttery and crumbly if you get it right, and the inside is all pinapple-y and custard-y, and then there’s meringue and sliced peaches on top…” just thinking about it was making his mouth water, and put him in mind of Christmas, Easter, and birthdays; times when his whole family gathered together to celebrate. What Hunk would _give_ for something that wasn’t the awful bland space goo they were fed here… what he would give to hear his Nana’s voice, to hear the voice of _anyone_ in his family…

    “Sounds nice,” said Shiro, breaking Hunk out of his contemplation.  

    “I’ll get my nana to make one, and we’ll half it. It’ll probably make us sick because when she makes it, it only comes in one size - _large_ \- but it’ll be _so_ worth it, I _promise_.”

    “That… that’d be nice…” said Shiro softly, “thanks, Hunk.”

 

 

 

 

    The Galra came back for him the next day. They both heard the footsteps, and they both knew it wasn’t the sound of a regularly scheduled patrol.

Shiro curled himself up into a ball against Hunk’s chest, clutching a handful of Hunk’s tank top with his remaining hand.

    “I don’t want to go,” he whispered, terrified. His whole body shook and shivered, and he gasped for breath, just like Hunk had on the day they got captured.

    “You won’t,” replied Hunk, gently extricating himself from Shiro’s hold so he could get to his feet. It was his turn to fight for them. His turn to do the protecting. It was Shiro’s turn to rest.

He put himself deliberately between Shiro and door while he waited for it to swish open, heart pounding in his chest.

It was almost an exact role reversal from the beginning of their captivity; Shiro sitting against the wall with his legs splayed out him front of him, desperately trying not to panic, while Hunk stood, tall and steady.

It was wrong. Everything about this wrong, but protecting Shiro was right, so that’s what Hunk would do.

    “Take me this time, _I’ll_ fight, leave him alone,” he declared the minute the door swished open, back ramrod straight, voice steady. Three Galra had come for Shiro this time.

    “Step aside,” snapped the first.

    “ _No,_ ” Hunk growled.   

Hunk fancied that even though Galra eyes were entirely yellow, he could _feel_ the eye roll.

    “He can’t fight with one arm, leave him and take me instead,” pleaded Hunk.

    “I said _step aside_. If I have to repeat myself, I’ll leave you in the same condition he is,” said the Galra, pointing at Shiro.

For the first time in his life, Hunk raised his fists in front of his face with the intent to hurt, to do what was necessary to _protect._

    “It’s okay, Hunk, I… I’ll go,” said Shiro weakly, managing to stagger to his feet by leaning heavily against the wall. He tried to put on a brave face, but his knees shook and his breathing was all labored and choppy. It made Hunk’s heart ache. Shiro was the bravest, strongest man he knew, and the Galra had been breaking him for months, crumbling him bit by bit, while Hunk had sat by idly and watched, petrified by the weight of his own fear.

    “ _No_ . I won’t let you take him,” he said, burning with conviction. The Galra laughed nastily, and with that, Hunk _snapped_.

The fire roaring in his chest was white hot, and it needed a physical outlet. With more agility than one would expect from someone with Hunk’s build, he darted forward and punched the Galra in the face, with a powerful uppercut to the chin.

The Galra clearly wasn’t expecting it, judging by the way it went down like a sack of potatoes.

    “Hunk!” cried Shiro, shocked.

Hunk turned his attention to the second Galra in the doorway and made to step towards them, but they did something which made the cuffs on his wrists snap together.

That didn’t stop Hunk though. He plowed forward and lashed out with both fists, walloping the Galra in the head hard enough to slam them into the door frame. After months of complacency and obedience, Hunk’s sudden change in temperament had caught the Galra off guard.

Seemingly gathering it’s wits, the third Galra pulled out something that looked like a glowy baton.

    “Hunk, no!” screamed Shiro, but it was too late.

The Galra dodged Hunk’s double-fisted punch, and touched the baton to his shoulder. Pain exploded through his nerves, white hot and electrifying, and Hunk _screamed_.

    “Stop it! Stop it! I’ll come quietly, just _stop hurting him!_ ” shouted Shiro.

The pain only stopped when Shiro physically shoulder barged the Galra off of him, with a pained grunt. Hunk crumpled to the ground, muscles still twitching with aftershocks.

Hunk got a kick to the gut that knocked the breath from his body, and possibly bruised half his ribs.

    “I said _stop it,_ ” growled Shiro.

Hunk managed to open eyes. Shiro was standing in front of him, panting with exertion. The Galra grabbed him by his good arm roughly and dragged him out of the cell.

There was a split second where Shiro looked back over his shoulder and caught Hunk’s gaze. Somehow, Shiro managed to dredge up a smile for him. It was a sad smile.  

The kind of smile you sent someone when you didn’t think you were going to ever see them again, but you wanted to reassure them.  

And then Shiro was gone. The cell door slammed shut, and Hunk was alone.

 

 

 

 

    Weeks passed, and still they didn't come for him. Hunk wasn’t lulled into a false sense of security however, he knew it was only a matter of time.

Shiro’s sad, parting smile haunted him at night, and by day he counted and measured the steps of the prison guards.

He knew right away when his time had come, when the footsteps approaching his cell didn’t follow their usual pattern.

    “Where’s Shiro?!” he spat at the first Galra that opened the door. They ignored him and made his cuffs stick together.

    “Are you listening to me? The other guy who used to live in this cell with me, what did you do to him? _Where’s Shiro?!_ ”

    “ _Quiet_ ,” snarled one of the Galra, brandishing the same sort of stick the Galra had used to shock him when they took Shiro away.

    “ _Stop_ ,” murmured one of the other Galra, catching the other by the wrist to stop them bringing the weapon down, “he needs to be in fighting condition.”

The Galra _did_ stop. He settled for glaring at Hunk so ferociously it was clear he’d like nothing more than to tear Hunk limb from limb. Hunk wondered if this was one of the Galra that he’d punched last time…

They pulled him out of the cell roughly. Hunk had a feeling deep in his bones that one way or another he wouldn’t be returning.

He should have felt terrified, but there wasn’t much room left for fear alongside the fire burning in his gut, calling for justice against these strange violent aliens who’d ripped him and Shiro away from everything they knew for no reason other than to fight for their entertainment.

For the second time, Hunk was led through the identical violet-lit corridors, down to the arena.  

This time, the holding room that adjoined the arena was empty of other aliens. It’s emptiness allowed him to see that there were smeared stains on the walls, a kaleidoscope of muted, flaky colors. Some of it looked like blood… with a jolt, Hunk realized that _all_ of it was probably blood; various aliens’ blood. There _was_ a metallic tang in the air; it filled Hunk’s nostrils and had his mouth tasting like rust.  

The guards undid his cuffs, barely giving him time to enjoy having his range of motion back, before pressing a strange alien-looking blade into his hands.

It was time.

With a harsh poke in the back from the butt of one of the Galra’s weapon, Hunk was herded out of the room, and under the bright lights of the arena.

Observing the arena from the holding room was very different from actually being _in_ it. In the arena, the combined focus of thousands of aliens was on him. Their collective bloodthirsty cries rang in Hunk’s ears, easily drowning out the pounding of his heart.

They hadn’t given him any instructions for what he was supposed to do, but when he saw the floor open up a hundred yards away from him, and a gladiator bot climbed out and proceed to run straight the fuck at him, sword raised above its head, he got the idea.

 _Fight._   

The Hunk that first arrived here would have been terrified. The Hunk that hadn’t lived through captivity, hadn’t watched someone he respected and looked up to _so much_ wither away before his eyes, would have tried to run and cower.  

Not this Hunk. Not now. _This_ Hunk was sick of being afraid. He was ready to be brave, like Shiro. He was going to fight, and if he was going down, he would do his utmost to take as many Galra as he could with him.  

The weapon they’d put in his hand was a lot like the traditional _nifo oti_ he used to wield to perform the _Ailao Afi_ \- fire knife dancing. He’d never been very good - his brother was much better than he was, he was too afraid of getting burnt or cut to really put on a good performance - but he was grateful for that experience now; the alien blade felt comfortable in his grip.

Shiro’s words echoed through his mind - _patience yields focus_ \- and he sank into an anticipatory crouch.

He dodged out of the way of the robot’s first attack, spinning to stab it in the back, but the blow glanced off the shiny metal with an awful screeching sound. The crowd watching him _loved_ it, and they screamed even _louder_.    

Hunk didn’t know whether they were cheering for him to win, or to lose.

The robot turned around and came at him again, forcing Hunk to scramble backwards as he ducked and dodged and blocked with his weapon; the robot was _relentless_. And _strong_.

It caught him by the arm and lifted him as if he were a toddler, throwing him clear across the arena. He landed with a heavy thud that knocked all the breath from his body. He barely had time to roll over onto his back before it was on him again, bearing down with its blade. Hunk almost didn’t get his own up in time to block it, and the blade cut his cheek before he could push it away.

Hunk felt his blood drip down his face, and he smelled the nauseating metallic tang of fresh blood in the air. He managed to get a leg up between himself and the robot to kick it away, letting him scramble back to his feet.

He needed to end this.

When it came at him again, he was ready. When he dodged out of the way of the incoming blow, he aimed his returning strike to catch an edge where there was a seam of metal, digging into the weak spot and jerking violently to pull a metal panel loose.

He didn’t hesitate to plunge his free hand inside and wrap his fingers around the wires he found there, giving them an almighty jerk. He grunted and grit his teeth because something was _burning_ him. A shock ran up his arm, but he refused to let go until he’d torn the tangled clump of wires out completely.  

Abruptly, the robot collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and the crowd roared with approval.  

Hunk had a feeling that if the robot had run him through, their screams of jubilation would have remained the same; they were cheering for _violence_ , didn’t matter who won. Their captives would always lose in the end eventually, anyway.

The moment Hunk stepped back from the downed robot, the floor opened up beneath it, and it was swallowed into the blackness below.

Hunk breathed a sigh of relief, shaking out the hand that felt like there was still electricity running through it. He’d killed their robot, now what?  

A different section of the arena floor opened up and Hunk braced himself to face whatever they decided to throw at him next.

He didn’t brace himself hard enough, but then again, no amount of bracing would have sufficiently prepared him for what rose out of that hole.

His weapon fell from his suddenly boneless grip, the clatter as it hit the ground lost to his ear over the screaming of the crowd.

    “Sh- _Shiro?_ ”

 

 

His legs were carrying him over before he even consciously decided to move them.

    “Shiro! You’re alive!”

Shiro was staring back at him in surprise, which very quickly turned into abject horror. Shiro actually took a step back from Hunk, flinching away from him, and causing Hunk to slow down his approach and stop just short of him, rather than grabbing him and hugging his guts out like he wanted to.

    “Hunk, _no_. What are you doing here?” asked Shiro, face twisted in panic.

That was when Hunk noticed the changes. Shiro’s forelock of hair had somehow turned a shocking white, and he had two arms again. Scratch that, he had _one_ arm, and a sophisticated looking metal prosthetic.

    “Shiro, your hair, your _arm-?_ ” Both of them were cut off by an amplified voice booming through the arena.

    “Only one of you will leave the arena alive. _Fight_ ,” it ordered cruelly.

    “What?! _No!_ ” cried Hunk. The crowd booed.

    “You will fight, or _neither_ of you will live,” boomed the disembodied voice forcefully, the sentiment the words held echoed by the answering roar of the crowd.

A warning shot whizzed by Hunk’s ear, and that was when he noticed the Galra positioned around the ring, all of them carrying what could only be _guns_ , and every single one was trained on them.

Across from him, Shiro crouched like he was going to spring, expression dark, and Hunk found himself instinctively backing away.

    “Sh-Shiro?”

    “Pick up your weapon, Hunk,” he answered.

Shiro started to advance, and his new metallic arm started to glow an alarming shade of violet.

    “I won’t fight you!” yelled Hunk.

    “Pick up your weapon, Hunk!” Shiro repeated, his voice carrying an authority Hunk found himself bowing to despite the fact that every cell of his body was _revolting_ at the idea of fighting him.

The blade shook in his grip, and he made no move to raise it from where it was pointed at the ground by his side.

    “I won’t fight you. They’ll have to kill me, or you’ll have to kill me, but I _won’t_ fight you,” Hunk’s voice shook with the strength of that conviction.

They could imprison him, they could hurt him, they could _kill_ him, but he refused to let them take his humanity.

However that didn’t mean he had a death wish, so when Shiro lashed out at him with his new arm, he instinctively brought his blade up to block the blow. The metal squealed and sizzled at the contact, and Hunk could feel the intense heat radiating from Shiro’s prosthetic.

    “What did they do to you?” he asked in a hushed voice, as the crowd around them went wild.

Shiro lashed out with his human hand, and pushed Hunk hard enough that he toppled over backwards and landed sprawled on his back.

    “Sorry about this, Hunk. I wish there was another way,” said Shiro, advancing on him.

    “Wait, _Shiro-!_ ”

Shiro leapt at him, reaching for him with his glowing hand, and Hunk brought his blade up instinctively to protect himself.

At the last moment, rather than trying to complete his strike, Shiro reached out with his human hand and grabbed the hilt of Hunk’s weapon, holding it steady...

    “Wait! _No!_ Shiro _Dont-!”_ cried Hunk, terrible understanding hitting him in a moment of clarity.

Shiro purposefully fell on the curved end of the blade, and it sank into his chest as if his flesh was as soft as butter, slipping neatly into a gap between his ribs. His hand guided Hunk’s, _forced_ him to angle the blade so that it would slide in deeper, all the way up to the hilt...  

He pulled back, still holding Hunk’s shaking hand steady, ripping the blade back out of the wound with a pained whine. It came away coated in bright red...

Shiro collapsed beside Hunk, and blood bloomed across the fabric of his tank top.

    “No,” breathed Hunk, “no, no, no, _no_ , you are _not_ doing this!” Hunk scrambling to sit up beside Shiro, insensible to everything else happening around him. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull roar as his focus zeroed in on Shiro.  

    “Oh, fuck, that’s a lot of blood,” said Hunk, hands fluttering uselessly over the wound as he floundered for what he should do. Stop the bleeding. He needed to stop the bleeding; that much was obvious, but _how?_ What if Shiro had a collapsed lung? Should he put pressure on it?

Shiro had the audacity to smile.

    “N-never heard you swear before,” he said, before breaking into a wet coughing fit.

    “ _Fuck_ ,” repeated Hunk emphatically, “j-just shut up, save your strength, you’re gonna be okay,” he said shakily, ripping off his own tank top to wad it up and press it against the wound.

Shiro let out a pained chuckle.

    “No, only one of us gets to leave, s’gonna be you,” he said, “sorry if I scared you, had to-to make it look realistic,” he continued, forcing the words out through labored pants.

Tears sprang to Hunk’s eyes, and Shiro’s face blurred in front of him.

    “Don’t say that, it’s j-just a flesh wound, you can survive, _please_ Shiro. I c-can’t do this without you!”

The next time Shiro coughed, he brought up an alarming amount of blood, and even _more_ blood started to pool on the arena floor around Shiro’s torso, leaking out of the exit wound.  

    “You _can_ ,” said Shiro emphatically, “you--you’ll make it, Hunk. See your family.”

Tears were falling thick and fast down Hunk’s face now, and he was so overcome that all he could do was furiously shake his head in response to Shiro’s words.

    “Say… say sorry to Keith for me. Promised… I promised I’d be back… tell’im I sent you instead,” Shiro voice was losing it’s pained edge, and gaining an airy quality Hunk didn’t like. Thin, and weak, like he could be blown away by a breeze.   

Each rise of Shiro’s chest was getting shallower and more labored underneath Hunk’s palms as he desperately tried to keep Shiro’s blood from leaking out of his chest.

    “ _No_ , tell him yourself,” Hunk choked out.  

    “Keith… give him… my pie…”  

A guttural sob worked it’s way out of Hunk’s chest without his permission.

    “Please, Shiro, no, y-you’ll be okay, we can fix this,” he said brokenly.

    “Remember…” Shiro’s eyelids fluttered weakly, “p-patience yields f-focus. _Live_ , Hunk. For me. Okay?” his eyelids settled closed, he exhaled, and then his chest rose no more.

    “ _No._ ”

Hunk frantically tried to find a pulse, smearing blood all over Shiro’s neck as his fingers fumbled to press into Shiro’s jugular.

    “ _No,_ c’mon Shiro.”

Hunk forced himself to think back to first aid lessons at the Garrison, what position the hands were meant to be in for CPR...

_Place two fingers at the sternum, then put the heel of your other hand next to your fingers..._

Before he could actually begin compressions, a Galra yanked him away roughly. He hadn’t even noticed them approaching.

    “No! Get off me, _leave him alone!_ ” Hunk screamed, thrashing wildly to escape the Galra’s grip. He succeeded by elbowing the Galra roughly in the gut, and was released with a satisfying grunt of pain. He immediately ran at the Galra that was reaching for Shiro, barging them away with his shoulder.

    “ _Don’t touch him!_ ” he snarled, crouching protectively over Shiro.

Anger and grief fueled him, and he lashed out viciously with his fists at any Galra that dared to draw near. In the end it took three of them working in tandem to subdue him, and drag him away.

Hunk kicked and screamed every step of the way, until one of the Galra jabbed a needle into his neck to inject him with some mystery liquid that smothered the righteous fire burning in the gut, dulled his mind, and made his muscles weaken.  

    “No… Shiro…” he moaned weakly, managing to twist in their tight grasp enough to catch one last glimpse of him.

It was only a split second, a tiny flash, but the image seared itself into the back of Hunk’s retinas.

If it weren’t for the puddle of blood surrounding Shiro like a red halo, soaking into his clothes, he could have been asleep. His face was slack, expression peaceful, and his limbs were inelegantly spread-eagled.  

    “Lemme _go--_ ” Shiro needed CPR, Shiro needed medical attention, Hunk had to help--

It was no use, whatever they’d drugged him with kicked in more strongly, and his legs collapsed from under him. He was dragged out of the arena, head spinning, ears ringing from the heckling of the crowd.   

It was bewildering to find himself back in a quiet violet corridor after the volume and sheer size of the arena.

    “Lemme go, n-need’t’elp Shiro,” Hunk demanded weakly, trying to pull his arms away from his captors. The words were hard to form because his tongue was clumsy, weighed down by the drug they’d given him.

    When they finally stopped dragging him, Hunk found himself in a room reminiscent of the one where he, Shiro, and Sam had been questioned by the druid.

The only difference was that there was only a single bench in the center of the room.

A single bench for _him_.

The drug was so effective that they didn’t even need to hold him in place to allow the metal restraints to slide over his body.

    “Lemme go, w-what did you do to Sh-Shiro!” he slurred.

No one replied to him, leaving him to struggle and shout himself hoarse in vain.

    Hunk only quieted down when a new figure swept into the room, too short to be one of the Galra guards, but all the guards seemed to shrink away from it all the same.

Hunk wanted to shrink away too, but he was pinned in place.

The new figure wore a black cloak with a hood hanging low over their face which made it hard to discern their features. All Hunk could make out was malevolently glowing eyes, and limp, bone-white hair.

There was something terribly _wrong_ about them, wrong in the same way that Emperor Zarkon was wrong. It was the yellow eyes; they were dead inside. Dead and decaying.

Hunk felt with absolute certainty they weren’t supposed to be here. Zarkon wasn’t supposed to be here either, among the living. Their existence was something grotesque. Something _unnatural._

    “What’d y’do wi’Shiro?” Hunk spat, glaring defiantly as he was able with his head so foggy.

    “My Champion…” they replied dispassionately, “no matter, you will take his place.”   

They raised their arms, revealing gnarled hands that ended in wickedly sharp talons-for-nails. Hunk braced himself. There was nothing he could do to stop them from doing anything she wanted to him…

The door swished open at the last second, and a voice interrupted them.   

    “High Priestess Haggar, Emperor Zarkon wishes for your presence,” declared the newcomer, laying their right fist over their sternum, and bowing respectfully.

Priestess Haggar’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, but she lowered her hands, and Hunk felt like he might choke on his relief.

    “Prepare him for the procedure,” she ordered, and then she stalked out of the room, leaving behind the distinct impression that she was displeased to have been interrupted.

The two Galra that had dragged Hunk here scrambled to obey her command the minute she quit the room, one of them tinkering with something that looked like a syringe, the other firing up the bonesaw. It sounded like a chainsaw, and the noise seemed to vibrate inside of Hunk’s skull, scattering his thoughts into an incoherent panicked mess.  

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, they’d taken Shiro’s arm. Were they going to take his too? He wanted to struggle, he wanted to kick and scream, but all he could do was lie there helplessly and watch while his brain became fuzzier and fuzzier.  

Suddenly, entirely out of the blue, the Galra that had come with the message about Zarkon lashed out.

He kicked one of the guards into the wall, leaving both the wall and the guard a crumpled mess, and he punched the other hard enough to shatter their face plate.   

As the Galra approached him, Hunk couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he’d passed out, and his savior was just a wishful, lucid dream...

His savior unceremoniously stabbed another needle into Hunk’s neck, injecting him with something that made Hunk’s veins feel like they were on fire so he _definitely_ wasn’t a dream.

“OW! What was that fo- _oh_ ,” Hunk figured it out when the trickling burning sensation resulted in his muscles actually responding to his commands again, and some of the fog began to lift from his brain; an antidote to whatever they’d given him before. This Galra was wearing the same uniform as the others, but he was lacking a helmet so Hunk could actually see his head. He had a white mohawk, pointy ears, and those signature yellow eyes all the Galra seemed to have.

    “Zarkon has located the Blue Lion of Voltron on your planet, Earth. You must get it before he does,” he said to Hunk with no preamble, pressing a few buttons that made the bone-saw stop, and his restraints slide away.

It might have been the fact that he had just spoken to Hunk as if he were worthy of being spoken to, the fact that he’d subdued the guards, or maybe even the fact he’d switched off the bone saw, but Hunk decided that _this_ Galra had a kind face. His eyes looked less bloodthirsty despite the unnerving yellow.

    “W-what?” said Hunk intelligently when he actually registered the words that were said to him. A blue lion? On _Earth?_ What was he supposed to do with a _blue lion?_

    “I’ve planted a bomb to cover your escape. You must get to a pod, _now_ ,” he said, ushering Hunk to his feet impatiently. He was still a little shaky, but he could actually support his own weight now.  
  
    “Who are you?” asked Hunk.  
  
    “I am Ulaz,” he replied formally.  

    “I’m-I’m Hunk.”

    “Yes, I know. Now, come on! Zarkon and Haggar will know that I released you, so I must disappear. But, if you survive, go to the Thaldycon system, coordinates 12-938-2976.”

    “ _What-?_ ” this was all so fast.

    “Repeat that for me,” demanded Ulaz.

    “Thaldycon system, coordinates 12-938-2976,” said Hunk dutifully, which had Ulaz gracing him with a tight, barely there, smile.

    “He said you had a good memory.”

Ulaz didn’t need to elaborate on who he meant.

    “ _Shiro_ , I can’t leave without Shiro,” Hunk blurted, grabbing Ulaz’s forearms beseechingly. “where is he?”

    “Your friend is dead,” said Ulaz solemnly, but not unkindly. Hunk started to cry anyway. Those words were like a punch in the gut, and they stole all the air from his lungs. Ulaz blurred before his eyes, and Hunk’s breathing hitched and shuddered.

    “N-no, he c-can’t be,” he choked out between wet sobs, unwilling to accept that Shiro could be gone.

    “As a fighter and a leader, Shiro gave hope. He wished for me to save you. You mustn’t allow his sacrifice to be in vain.”

Hunk’s whole body wanted to reject the idea like it was a bitter poison, but then he remembered how easily his blade had sliced through Shiro’s body, how easy it had been for Shiro to angle it so that it ran him right through.

Hunk remembered how much blood there had been, some of which was still coating his hands, and soaked into the fabric of his clothes. It was dry now, dulled to a flaky burgundy that made it look as though Hunk were rusting.  

    “Earth needs you. We all do,” said Ulaz.

    “O-okay,” said Hunk. He couldn’t let himself break. He had to be strong, he had to protect Earth and do what he could. Do what Shiro couldn’t do anymore… He pulled himself together with a deep breath.

    “Where are the pods?” he asked Ulaz.

    “Take the left corridor, and then keep following it until the end.” Hunk nodded in understanding.

    “Thank you.”     

    “The Blade of Marmora is with you. Be brave, Hunk.”

Ulaz opened the door, and disappeared into the corridors beyond just as quickly as he’d appeared, making Hunk wonder if it’d all been an elaborate figment of his imagination.   

The unconscious figures of the guards and the massive dent in the wall were pretty compelling evidence against that, so Hunk took a deep breath and forced his still-sluggish muscles to move. He’d have to hope that he’d have proper time to mourn for Shiro later.

He could feel the anguish and despair swirling in his gut, stoking the fire there even higher, but if he let it consume him he’d either collapse into an inconsolable mess right there in the corridor, and bawl until the Galra inevitably found him, or he’d go looking for that awful creature that had called Shiro _‘my champion’_ and he’d do something unspeakably violent.

Earth was in danger. Shiro would want him to protect Earth, so Hunk forced himself down the left corridor.

He replayed Ulaz’s final words to him in his head as he went.

_Be brave, Hunk._

  


 

 

 

**Galra Communication Log:**

 

_“Prisoner 117-9876 has stolen a pod and escaped. Appears to be heading towards System X-9-Y, third planet from the main sequence homestar.”_

 

_“Pursue and await further orders.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"Ready to commence infusion of quintessence for Prisoner 117-9875."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please bear with me, I'm afraid this author note is _long._
> 
>   * So the story ends where cannon begins, just with Hunk crash landing on Earth in Shiro’s place.
>   * I really ummed and ahhed about including the last line of the fic or not, and in the end I figured that seeing as I wrote it, I may as well include it. I like to think that the quintessence infusion saved Shiro's life, and that the team will get him back later on down the road… or you can believe it failed and he’s dead, up to you reader. In any case, Hunk believes that Shiro died at the end, but whether or not he actually did, is up to interpretation. :)
>   * I think Hunk sounds a lot like a nickname, so you’ll notice that I gave Hunk a full name for this fic - Iosefa Lealofi. It’s a Samoan name, Iosefa is Samoan for Joseph, and Lealofi is the surname of a Samoan activist called Tupua Tamasese Lealofi-o-a'ana III. He was killed during peaceful protests for Western Samoa’s independence in 1929, and his final words were _“My blood has been spilt for Samoa. I am proud to give it. Do not dream of avenging it, as it was spilt in peace. If I die, peace must be maintained at any price,”_ which I thought was a fitting sort of sentiment for Hunk.
>   * _Kalofae_ is a Samoan word used to express sympathy, but also when something is endearing. It’s sort of a great multi-use exclamation that is roughly the equivalent of 'awww,' like if someone tells you a sad story you'd say _'kalofae'_ or your grandmother might pinch your cheeks if you're a small child and say _'kalofae'_ (I am fully grown and my grandmother still does this though lol). Formally it's spelled _Talofae,_ but said aloud in casual conversation it's pronounced with a k instead of a t cause in Samoan we have formal and informal language. T's become K's, R's become L's and sometimes N's become G's in informal language.
>   * The prayer that Hunk recites is just the Lord’s Prayer in Samoan (Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name etc. etc.)
>   * White Sunday is a Samoan national holiday that falls on the 14th of October. In Samoan it’s called _Lotu Tamaiti_ which means children’s day, or children’s prayer, and that’s kinda what it is; a day for children. And everyone wears all-white lol
>   * _To’ona’i_ is family feast on Sunday!
>   * _Fa’alifu_ is cooked green bananas in coconut sauce, which sounds random, but it’s a super common Samoan side dish.
>   * _Saka_ means to boil, and Hunk was talking about grating taro for the _saka_ because much like _fa’alifu_ , boiled Taro is a super common Samoan side dish.
>   * _Sau i'i, lo'u atali'i_ means come here son
>   * _Sapa sui_ is Samoan chop suey, a dish that sort of came to be because of the influence of waves of Chinese immigration into Samoa during the early 1900s. As a result of this immigration, many many Samoans have Chinese heritage.
>   * _Pisua_ is a dessert that’s tapioca in coconut caramel sauce.
>   * The pineapple pie is actually a thing. My grandmother actually used to make it for special occasions. _Fai fai pea_ means keep up the hard work!
>   * I’ve kind of assumed that the Galaxy Garrison is affiliated with the military on account of it being, you know, a Garrison. Seeing as American Samoa has the highest rate of military enlistment of any U.S state or territory, I’ve always thought it would be interesting if Hunk’s came from a family that had served in the military, and lost members because of that service. That would account for some of Hunk’s fearfulness, and I feel sort of explain why he felt compelled, or even pressured to attend such a school when he doesn’t really like violence or dangerous adventure.
>   * You can find me on tumblr [here](https://greenteafiend.tumblr.com/), and the artist who did the lovely art [here](http://anidragon.tumblr.com/).
>   * Reblog the art on tumblr [here. :)](http://anidragon.tumblr.com/post/176070009202/my-entry-for-the-hunkbigbang-this-entry-was-done)
> 

> 
> I put my heart and soul into this fic so please let me know what you thought if you enjoyed it :)


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